The Basic Concepts Of Sweetness
by wowsugarpuss
Summary: Sometimes during a lonely summer you get too defeated to hold a grudge. AU from S1.


When he looks at her the first time he doesn't seem to know whether he's seeing a nightmare or a mirage. He settles on a little of both and lets her close the distance, standing a firm and defiant ground. He is terrifyingly defeated and she's a little lost in the world after growing herself around a purpose like a climbing vine. He reaches out to her across the sand – only once she is within touching distance – and the hand on her arm is heavy and sad, like he can't hold himself up on his own anymore.

She wonders later if in that moment he let his desperation sink into her skin – if that was the beginning of her own confusion and detachment. In reality it wasn't – he was just the one to give in first, to admit defeat – but his secret is safe, she won't tell anyone. Because they are a secret again, and secrets really are kind of hot.

The hand that anchored her beside him on the sand is the same one that reaches up between her legs the first night he stays over – sneaking through a window like some awful cliché – teasing sticky, damp flesh until she cries out with a hand over her mouth that is not her own. When she wakes up the next morning he is gone and the next time they meet there are several purple marks marring his hand – tiny, blurry teeth marks.

He grins a little like he means it and walks in the opposite direction to her and Back Up – because they are still not publicly civil – and nobody needs to know that she is leaving climactic temporary tattoos on him. She has a bruise on her hip from his belt buckle – but it is small and unexciting compared with his damaged hand, a hand that will discover every physical secret about her.

*

She stands in front of his obnoxiously yellow car – rocking backwards and forwards between the balls of her feet and her heels – trying to stay warm in the evening chill.

He refuses to get out of the car and the doors are locked, his windows wound up. She's not sure what's wrong or why he's being such a brat but when he called her cell his voice was slurred and his diction unclear.

She doesn't want anyone else to die.

Eventually he relents – clicking the locks off and inviting her in with an open palm. She climbs into the passenger side despite herself and settles in. He slaps his keys into her waiting hand petulantly and she pockets them quickly before he changes his mind. His head falls onto the steering wheel and they don't speak as she rummages through the various compartments – taking out CDs and reading through the liner notes, checking his license in the glove compartment, playing with the A/C – anything to keep her occupied while he sulks.

She really doesn't like finding a small, metal flask that smells of vodka fallen down inside the drinks holder so she hits the button for her window and tips the last of the foul liquid out onto the ground around his wheels. He scowls at her but doesn't say much about it and she thinks he probably has at least one more flask somewhere in the car.

He jumps out of the driver's seat and moves round to her side, yanking open the door and leaving her to follow him. He heads down the rough and onto the beach itself – walking without aim, staying close to the edge of the land in a strangely parallel direction. It only takes her a few moments to catch up with his inebriated stagger and she walks beside him, a few feet of distance buffering them.

A cool breeze skips off the ocean and she shivers down the long lines of goose bumps covering her arms. When he offers her his shirt she refuses, several times. Eventually he steps in close beside her and wraps an arm around her shoulders – pulling her tight against him. She doesn't stop him and as they continue to walk her head leans into his chest, listening to the blood fuelling around under his skin. She tells herself that she just needs to keep warm.

Her toes play in the blisters of white sea-foam that break against the sandy shore. It is not even real water, just sections perforated with air not deep enough to cover her feet, holding her shoes in one hand she splashes like she did when she was small.

He has less hesitation about the ocean – growing up in the surf – and his jeans are rolled up around his legs – wading in with longer strides. Arms beckoning for her to join him. She grins lamely, head shaking from side to side with vague amusement. He is drunk and in the ocean and she's worried for a little while but he soon paddles back to the sand, letting himself fall ungracefully against it.

He digs his hand deep into the sand, clawing through the fragments of shell like there is something underneath – something other than just more sand. She knows what it feels like to look for something that doesn't seem to be there, but she found her truth and she hopes that his is a little further to the surface. That he finds it quickly and rids himself of the melancholy that makes him different.

There is a quiet that vibrates from him now that she has never seen in him before. She's not sure if it was hidden beneath his bravado layers and open shirts or if he has grown this new skin of silence to help keep his feelings in. Just another wall because loud and obnoxious stopped working.

Either way she starts to pack the sand down over his hand – trapping it inside the ground. He struggles to pull it free and she idly scrapes away at the compacted sand – when their skin finally touches he twists their dusty fingers together, squashing the sand between them like he cannot let go. She uses her other hand to brush some of the dirt from him and he tugs her off-balance – sending her across his lap. The sea shushes and she lays her head against his thigh, legs curled round behind her.

She is content to let his thumb trace around her fingers as he mutters a quote which she remembers is supposed to be vaguely profound. She finds his mouth slick against hers much more insightful.

"_Are you still mad at me?"_

"_I don't know."_

*

She thinks that it's obnoxious when he kisses her with gum in his mouth – but he does it all the same. She always kisses him back through the artificial mint which lessens as the day goes on and her tongue wears it away. It is a much more interesting way to tell the time – press her tongue inside of his mouth and see how much mint is left from the morning. It gives the illusion that his breath is cold and she shivers into his mouth – lips tingling from the chemicals.

*

People could not hate him; he was too charming and hurt – the innocent to Aaron's villain. Now the poster boy for every abused child that had ever watched a Hollywood movie – he hates that they think he's the victim. Only he's supposed to think that.

He gets letters from his mother's fans – messages of condolence. Tales of how much his mother loved him, from strangers who never knew her. He finds it absurd because she knew about the whole sorry affair; she just took another pill or filled another glass when he crossed the lounge with a belt in his palm.

Sometimes he gets letters from his father's fans – but he's never allowed to read them. All his mail is opened for him and the undesirable weeded out. He toasted marshmallows over a pile of letters that said 'Lynn could have never known' once – he was really opposed to that many lies being allowed to exist in the world in such a confined space. Especially when his back held the scars that proved them wrong.

She never, ever speaks to him about the scars. Acts as if they aren't there – and that's the only reason he let her touch them, she knows that. She can almost feel the hurt quiver off his body but his skin is only shivering because she's touching so much of it. Everyone else wants to talk about his father's belts but he has no answers for their intrusive, well-meaning questions.

"_You didn't care last week."_

*

The first time he pushes into her slowly, heavily – like a weight being placed carefully on a table, for everyone to see – a declaration, a beginning, a new picture to process. Her chest is tight, breath hardly moving and she had never expected to be this scared. She didn't think she would be scared at all – but she is and this is closer than she can ever remember being with anyone. And they have hurt each other before this – they could hurt each other after.

As their chests beat against each other he adjusts his position, grazing lazy fingers down her side. Her lips are soft and moldable against his – both sticky with lip gloss now – and she settles down beneath him, ready for the real thing. Her tongue touches his bottom lip and he kisses her more sweetly than usual. Their rhythm is slow and testing, his mouth on her ear – telling her that she is okay. She closes her eyes and believes him.

His breath is taut and shuddering as he tries to stay measured for her. Soft and relaxed and her muscles are beginning to untwist themselves in comparison to his.

His fingers trace her hairline and she feels horribly safe in the shadow of his hand. She can feel the residue of her heartbeat in her ribcage and the sweet motion of affectionate fingers running the edges of her face is strangely calming. She knows that the shadows of hands have haunted him his whole life, but as she presses her palm against his stomach – to his side – his back, his arms and legs – she wants to believe he can tell the difference between the shadows she makes on him. Like the different angles a sundial can create.

*

People would be even more surprised about them this time around – she knows that she is. They hide in the late afternoon sun that filters through her curtains. Her bed is too small for both of them but he doesn't seem to mind her sprawled across his body, leg hooked around his, chest pressed tight over his, arms wrapped around his. She is all over him, around him and he feels safe here with warm beams of sunlight spotting her increasingly warm skin.

"_You want to get something to eat?"_

*

When he drags her up the wall and down onto him she bites a little welt into her lip – soon it is raised and swollen inside her mouth, tasting of copper and death and life and sex. He can taste the blood as he kisses her and neither can help thinking about a girl whose story ended with blood in the mouth and ground beneath her back. She clenches her thighs around him pulling away to rest her forehead on his shoulder – trying to wipe the taste of her tongue on his shirt.

The blood is still there and her back aches from the wall but he is solid and hot against her and her breath hits his shoulder in quick, harsh pants.

A hand twists up her neck diagonally, pulling her head back as he grabs her mouth with his own riotously. His arm stops her head rocking against the wall anymore and he doesn't care about the taste of blood – it is a permanent fixture in his own mouth, the inside of lips and cheeks nervously chewed.

Her stomach contracts, hard – breasts jerking awkwardly against him. She bites down on his lip, vicious teeth sinking into the skin to match the desperate fingers pressed roughly into his side and shoulder. The rhythm of her back against the wall becomes erratic and she clings to him tightly. He is still shaking against her as her legs slide down his hips – unsteadily keeping her upright as his hand presses gently in the small of her back. He leans down and presses closed lips to hers once, softly.

She's a good girl with a nice smile and he doesn't know why he ever forgot that. She bakes cookies for her best friend, makes a home-made card when her dad is in the hospital and she doesn't seem to hold a grudge – not if she can help it. Not if the person has changed. She has never asked him for an apology about the past year but she gazes at him with a kind of awe when he stumbles for the words. She licks her broken lip and says thank you – and a little bit of warmth captures the inside of his stomach._  
_

*

Headache pounds inside their skulls and she lies quietly stretched out along the length of him as he murmurs a hangover into her hair. Nonsense punctuated by the odd giggle or two – slow motion and weighted down with the lingering fumes of spirits that teenage bodies shouldn't have to process. They are processing two kinds of spirits and he doesn't know what wreaks the most havoc on a body – alcohol or ghosts. Which leaves the lasting scar? There is a half-finished bottle of tequila at the bottom of his bed and she knows her dad would be mortified, but Logan is quiet and devastated and she didn't want him to be alone in it. She'd quite welcomed some oblivion from the aftermath of all her truth.

His bed is slightly larger than hers but she still holds tight against him – wrapped up together in the middle. Her breathing is fluid and she is still surprised at the lack of supervision they have been given. Keith doesn't know about Logan and so he doesn't check his credit cards – doesn't worry when Veronica goes to a friend's when he stays with Alicia or has to go back to hospital overnight. Veronica feels bad for using nice girls so that she can spend time with boys that no one knows anything about – but she returns all her favors and this is a partly selfless thing. She's here for him, not the other way around – she tells herself every time she wakes up.

*

She has an apologetic smile reserved especially for him. She's doesn't think she's ever hurt anyone more – but he's gotten in his fair share of cheap shots during their more tumultuous times. The glass between her lips is cool and his leg resting against hers is heated, she loves the contrast. His hand rests just above her knee, stroking up and down the skin absentmindedly as he talks.

They eat cereal out of the box together, lounging on the thick carpet watching children's cartoons on a Saturday morning. Every child goes through this ritual at some point but he grew up too fast and she just wants to crawl back into her childhood – where things were soft, where things were sweet.

His mouth tastes like sugared-corn and maize. Her fingers are a little sticky, shining ever so in the light from the screen as they catch on his face. Gummy little fingerprints left over his cheekbones and jaw.

He leans into her touch, not pretending to be wary. He's not sure if they're ready for anyone to see them but he also thinks that life's too short – they should both know that by now. They just need to get a clue.

She scoops up a handful of flakes, letting go of his face, and eats them one by one. When she gets to the last one she presses it to his mouth with a criminally cute smile and squirms a little when he bites the tip of her finger gently. She brushes a crumb from his lip lightly with her thumb before she brings her mouth across to his, tongue teasing the closed line of his lips which opens for her easily.

He tilts her back, hand coming round from her waist and travelling up her back. His fingers knotted in the underside of her hair – cushioning her head – as her back hits the ground, knocking over the box of cereal in the process.

When he manages to get her pants around her knees and her underwear down he thrusts into her – roughly – and her fingernails curl around his shoulders. Gripping. Grasping. Leaving more temporary tattoos for tomorrow. His lips are pushed hard against her neck and she will have an interesting time explaining away the marks and brands he intends to leave on her. He groans loudly as she shudders and jolts beneath him – and the cartoons on the TV do wholesome things like bake cakes and pick flowers.

There are frosted flakes crushed into the carpet. Two stray buttons on the floor. And a warm patch, exposed to body heat and sweat – she just lays there, jeans half-down, panting up at him once it's over.

*

He is always, always touching her – and she's okay with that. As the summer goes on he finds less resistance to his hands, less tensed muscle beneath his fingers as her flesh begins to comply with him. Rely on him.

Her eyes are glazed over with the heady afterness of sex and sleep. She burrows her face further into his chest and pretends that it isn't ten-thirty a.m. and that she shouldn't be getting up soon. His hand squeezes her waist just so – he's awake – and she kisses the nearest piece of skin with a partly open mouth, letting her eyelashes flutter closed again.

She lets her hand rest lightly on his stomach, fingers brushing lazily around his ribs. With weighted eyes she watches the individual muscles tighten as she touches – he stirs a little, still half asleep – and she moves in closer pulling the sheets from in between them to lie along his skin. His arm adjusts for her and he kisses a pattern into her hair as her head rises and falls to the pace of his breathing. Warm and alive and regular.

She rolls over to straddle him, thighs stretched pleasantly across his. Their heartbeats clash in irregular rhythms, blood pumping different paces through their bodies. He is more awake than she had realized, more awake than her.

At some point her legs end up over his shoulders – around his neck, the rest of her angled down into the mattress. His mouth is only too happy to investigate the territory and he licks a path up her thigh – the hazy taste of salt clinging to her under his tongue. A sheen of sweat glazing her skin like sugar – appetizing and slightly addictive.

*

She finds him on her doorstep looking like he has been crying. He hands her a small slip of newspaper article and she skims over it quickly: it says he has forgiven Aaron. That as one of Hollywood's rose-tinted families they will work through this new adversity together with all kinds of forgiveness and understanding. That Aaron has changed in the year since Lilly's death – that he is a better man. That everyone is praying for parole.

His jaw is so tight that she doesn't know what to do with him – he looks like he might bite her if she tried to kiss him. It doesn't really seem an appropriate time for sex but she begins unbuttoning his shirt anyway. She decides he is wearing too many layers – he always, always dresses in layers – and that he has to stop hiding all the hurt buried in his skin beneath overtly expensive t-shirts and cotton. His hands push up under the edge of her tank – pulling it away from the waistband of the crumpled pajama pants she is still wearing – warm and fresh out of bed.

She drags him backwards into her room and he falls into the crook of her duvet as she curls in beside him. A small nest of warm fabric cocooning them as she removes the last layer.

Her bra catches painfully as he tries to tug it away – determined to remove the restraints – fumbling a little she manages to pull the remaining strap away from her arm without losing contact for too long. His finger trails down between her breasts a thumb scraping the underside of one. Her skin contracts and rises into his touch, her whole body firm under his ministrations.

Her mouth connects to his body, travelling lower and lower and as her lips close down around him the slip of tabloid defamation lies wrinkled by her front door.

He gasps out, fingers curled white-tight into the sheets. Her hand rests comfortably on the inside of his thigh and his fingers are back touching her – running through her hair, playing with the tips – as she swallows.

"_I hate him, I really hate him."_

"_It's okay… He's gone now._

"_I hate him."_

*

They are both a little defeated and desperate. Losing what seems like your everything can do that to a person – losing your purpose is almost as bad. She has seen the aftermath of his father beating hers – and she has nearly died. She cares much less about whether or not he is using her as a confidential comfort and she thinks that if she admitted a lot of things to herself one of them would be that she is using him too. She still cares about him, but she knows that neither of them are ready for each other – for anyone – at the moment. They are not stable enough for normal things like hand-holding and teddies and the mall – so they work their way back into whatever they had before, extending on it.

They are scared and scarred and sleeping together because that is the only kind of safety they can muster from each other without tears and trust-issues surfacing again. They are becoming masters of denial and forgiveness. His fingertip brushing away salt-dust from the corner of her eye, her palms flat on his chest while she's above him, their breath mixing in the space between their mouths – these are all the ways they say I'm sorry, please forgive me.

And slowly – everyday – he forgives her for not trusting him and she trusts him a little more. And they cry and fuck and laugh – and they work towards some sweetness, towards something other than accusations and year-old suspicions.

They're both guilty and sorry and aching, looking for something – someone – to hold on to throughout the aftershocks. Too crushed for pride and malice and blame – too scared of being alone in the meantime.

He slips his arm around her – fingers pushing into the edge of her pocket, her head settles near his shoulder and they both speak in silent tones, willing this to be okay for a while.

"_I'm so sorry, please just don't leave me."_


End file.
